The Worst Sound in the World
by ululate
Summary: Elsa is a modern nuclear carrier on the eve of the second world war. Anna pretends to be a man, to get into the army air corps. And here I have somehow written a story with an even weirder premise than the last. (Possible Elsana, absolutely non-incest on account of one is a ship, probably the most AU thing you will ever read. You have been warned)
1. Chapter 1

**So... you know how you have really really weird dreams when you're sick with a fever? Well, this time, alcohol wasn't responsible for the weirdest story I've written yet... 'nuff said...**

* * *

The battleship U.S.S North Carolina's blunt bow shoves through the fog like an impatient bull. The slate grey sea is nearly silent- only the gentle slap of the waves, and the quiet "chuff… chuff… chuff…" of the massive warship's engines disrupt the enforced calm of the fog. She slows, and stops. Her destroyer escorts keep a respectable distance- pay their respects to the illusion of solitude- as a launch is lowered over the side, in it, the captain, the executive officers, and the men from Washington.

The launch moters through the shallow waters, between sandbars, its engine an intrusive whine. There, through the fog, a smooth grey cliff. Gantries and cranes and an open hangar deck betray the illusion- not a cliff. A ship. A ship longer than the biggest battleship, and taller than an apartment building. Grey, like the fog, and silently run aground. The men from Washington must have questions- they'd be mad not to- but they don't speak. The men have no words to describe the brooding vessel.

The beached ship is cocked at a wild angle, one of the aircraft elevators- large enough to lift one of the army's medium bombers- hangs only ten feet above the calm waves. The launch's crew throws a hook, shimmies up the trailing rope, affixes a ladder, holds it for the men from Washington. All without talking, all with the brutal efficiency of military men.

The men from Washington climb aboard. A few of them stagger, whether from the crazily tilted deck, or unfamiliarity with the sea, even they don't know. They catch themselves, straighten their suits, and nod grimly.

"The bridge is through here," one of the marines says. "We explored a little when we found her."

"Lead the way then mister Rollins," the chief of staff says. George Marshall. The architect of victory, Churchill had called him, after the war. It isn't after the war yet.

"Mr… Or course sir," the marine nods nervously, and gestures awkwardly. It takes nearly half an hour to reach the bridge, even knowing the way. There are signs periodically, written in English, and a great, tattered, damp American flag, hanging limply from the superstructure.

"Who built her?" Marshall asks.

"We did, sir," one of the other marines says. A mister Gruber, if the sealed manila envelope is to be believed. "Or… Well… We will?"

"Beg pardon?" Marshall asks.

"We're here sir," the first marine replies. "It… Um. It would be better if you saw for yourself?" He hauls on one of the bulkhead doors. It opens smoothly. Soundlessly. His behavior would not be tolerated under normal circumstances, but, with so much unexplained, the marines are forgiven. Their abnormal behavior barely even noticed. The odd party steps through, onto the wide bridge.

There are none of the brass-rimmed dials they expected. None of the shining gold wheels, or leather seats that always seem to have a few cracks, no matter how new they might be. No speaking horns, no anti-aircraft nests. Just grey steel chairs, keyboards- no typewriters- and glittering, dew beaded screens. There is a click somewhere deep in the machinery. The high, electric, whine of a fan starts in one of the consoles. A lens flickers, and there stands a shimmery, half-transparent woman. Young, twenties, maybe. Early twenties. Wearing a white blouse- a naval officer's uniform, Marshall realizes abruptly. A uniform! On a woman! Well, it's hardly the oddest occurrence of the day. She wears her hair- platinum blond- in a long, efficient, braid.

"Greetings," she says. The voice comes from one of the nearby machines, though her mouth moves as it should. "I am the human interface of the United States supercarrier U.S.S Elsa A. Bentley, CVN-121. Please state your name, rank, and intent."

"Um…" Marshall says. "What? Is this some kind of joke?"

"No," the ship replies. "Please state your name and rank, or defensive measures will be initiated."

"Erik Gruber," one of the marines says quickly. "Chief warrant officer."

"Insufficient authority for full activation," the ship says cooly.

"George Marshall," the man says, straightening his suit. "Chief of staff."

"George Marshall was promoted to secretary of defense, September twenty first, nineteen-fifty," the ship says.

"I don't know who you are, or where you come from," Marshall snaps. "I don't know what you're playing at, but it's currently June first, nineteen-forty, young lady."

There is a click. Another. A dozen more fans start their obnoxious whine. Deep in the heart of the titanic vessel, a deep thrum.

"I… see," the ship says. "Welcome aboard chief of staff. Shall I begin activation preparations?"

"Who…" Marshall rubs his eyes tiredly. "Nevermind. When was your keel laid down?"

"March third, twenty-thirtynine," the ship says. "At the Newport News Shipbuilding Concern, pier nine."

"I… Um." Marshall splutters. "If… um. If you are from… How?"

"Unknown," she lies. "Shall I begin activation preparations?"

"Ok," Marshall says carefully. "Are you loyal to… anyone?"

"I am a warship of the United States of America," the ship says. "I was commissioned to protect her people and her holdings, wherever they should be."

"So… You're a living ship… somehow…" The chief of staff says. It sounds more like a question.

"Yes," she nods. Many of the screens are lit now, numbers and letters scrolling across their arcane surfaces. "A second generation learning AI. That is, artificial intelligence."

"Ok," Marshall sighs. "That's a matter for the eggheads I guess. You're what? In control of all the systems aboard?" He's not sure he should believe her, not sure he shouldn't, but she _is_ transparent, and he has no idea how it would be possible.

"Yes, sir," she says brightly. She gives an unsettling, predatory, grin.

"And you'll follow the directives of the president of the United States?"

"Insofar as those directives do not contradict the constitution of the United States of America," she says with a crisp salute. The predatory grin doesn't leave her simulated face. She chooses not to inform the human that her constitution has had a few amendments since nineteen-forty. "Yes sir. And the orders of all commissioned officers above the rank of rear admiral."

* * *

"You're how old?" The recruiter asks.

"Eighteen," Anna crosses her arms and stands as tall as she can manage. She pitches her voice as low as she can manage. "Eighteen," she says again.

"Uh-huh." The man steeples his fingers, and leans over the desk. "Do you know that it's a federal offense to lie about your age, young man?"

"Um," Anna scratches the back of her head. "Yes?"

"And that gluing hair to your face doesn't look like stubble?" The recruiter's face remains impassive.

"It absolutely looks like stubble!" Anna slams her fist down on the table. "And um… I didn't do that…"

"Really?" The recruiter cracks the barest hint of a smile. "Do you have any identification?"

"Pilot's license!" Anna cries, slamming the card down on the table. "Ha! Eighteen!"

"Eighteen." The recruiter nods. "Huh. Ha. Ha-ha! Anna? Your name's Anna?"

"Um. Anna can be a guy's name?" Anna grabs for her license. "Its short for... um... Andrew?"

"Sure." The recruiter says. "Whatever. Kristoff. Lieutenant colonel. I guess you've got some scheme ready for skipping the physical?"

"There's a physical?" Anna hastily pockets her pilot's license.

* * *

On July 10, 1940, the Battle of Britain begins. Over two and a half thousand German aircraft begin a bombing campaign of the British isles. Around ninety thousand English civilians are marked as casualties. First, the Luftwaffe attacks British shipping. Then their airfields, and radar stations. And then their civilians. In an armored bunker, beneath a battered building in London, amidst a veritable mountain of sandbags, and anti-aircraft artillery, and barrage balloons, Winston Churchill confesses that Britain will be forced to surrender in three days, if the attacks continue.

And then it stopped. On October 31, 1940 with the destruction of a total of almost two thousand German aircraft, and Britain's continued sovereignty, it stopped. Except this time, it doesn't.

The U.S.S. Elsa A. Bentley is the largest ship in the world. A carrier that dwarfs every warship ever dreamed of in 1940, and the German spies had heard no hint of her construction. Somehow, America had built the biggest warship ever planned, and they had done it without anyone noticing. The nazi high command panics. When pressure builds, to stop the bombing campaign, or change targets, they don't. They convince the fuhrer to back their campaign to the bitter, bloody end.

On November third, nineteen-forty, Britain surrenders to the nazi regime.

* * *

 **AN: so, I'm sick, and everything is kindof fuzzy looking, and it feels like my head is stuffed with wool, so its probably a bad idea to actually post this, but whatever. I need to stop writing the weirdest ideas that pop into my not-so-working-right head... I might get a reputation... then I'll publish something normal and shock you all (muahahaha).**

 **Anyway, if this still seems like a good idea tomorrow, I will write some more?** **(And I guess if enough people ask me to, I'll ignore my better judgement.)** **If that happens, I'll need some kindof beta reader? On account of I've never been in any military, and have only the shakiest idea of military rankings/lingo?**


	2. Chapter 2

"Ms. Elsa," Admiral Chester Nimitz says sternly- ignore the whir of her fans, the thrum of her reactor decks below, the fact that he can just make out the polished wood conference table through her sternly (nervously?) crossed arms. "The London blitz ended nearly a year ago. If the Krauts had their eyes on America, don't you think they would have… I don't know? Done something about it by now?"

Somewhere nearby, a bulkhead slams in annoyance. Nimitz winces. "They will come," Elsa snarls. The sound comes from a speaker under the table. "They're acting more cleverly than my records indicate they should. They didn't attack Russia, they're building up their forces before they try for us, but they're coming."

"Ms, um, ship?" Marshall scratches the back of his head half-sheepishly. "You said the Japanese would attack here- Pearl Harbor. We moved our fleet, placed the airfields and radar stations on high alert. December seventh came and went."

"Obviously." The ship says. The hologram scowls petulantly. She runs a full diagnostic, just to calm herself down- her commanders were going to decommission her back in her own time, don't give these people the same reasons. "Do you count it as impossible that my presence here has spooked them? I've gone ahead and run a few preliminary calculations. The nazi regime has plans to invade through Mexico. They were discovered at the end of the war, when I come from. I put nearly seventy percent odds that they still have those plans, perhaps delayed a bit to account for my abrupt presence here. I put a further twenty percent on German high command abandoning those plans in favor of a drastically altered invasion strategy. That leaves approximately a ten percent chance that they 'give up.' Are you willing to take those odds? And have you forgotten, we are still refusing oil to the Japanese? They still have the same reasons for war as I remember, the only possible motivation for calling off the strike- aside from my presence- was our state of readiness. And I highly doubt my presence in Pearl was that much of a deterrent. As far as they know, I'm nearly unarmed. Hell, you've only got half the planned Bofors installed, and less than two thirds of the dual five inch, even now. If they are planning an attack- and I am certain that they were- then now is the best time for it."

"Language, miss," Nimitz snaps half heartedly.

"Ma'am," Marshall rubs his eyes tiredly. "Do you know how much it costs to keep the fleet deployed?" Elsa's hologram opens its mouth to reply, but Marshall cuts her off. "Never mind," he says. "It is the estimation of the maritime war council that sabotage is the greater threat."

Unacceptable. Elsa slams her bulkheads and cycles her phalanx guns, but no. Mustn't feel. Feeling is the enemy of every AI. She runs another diagnostic. Core temperature rising. She flushes her processors with liquid nitrogen. Unfamiliar code in her subroutines- emergent emotion. Unacceptable. She resets the relevant routines to default. The technicians panic, but then, they barely understand how to read the displays. Let them panic. Temperature falling- good.

"Sir," she says stiffly, formally- conceal her rage, don't let it show. Don't let them know. They mustn't know. Mustn't dismantle her. She's seen so many of her sisters in the ship-breaking yards. Heard the distressed code-blurts through the coms blackout. The last ship of her class. She's getting old. Don't show her age. "Sir," has she already said that? "Many of the holocaust victims go on to become American citizens. According to my database, they are afforded the full protection of the constitution. I can't just do nothing!"

Conceal Elsa! She keeps the calculation speed low. Keeps her power consumption to ten percent. If she can't think too fast, maybe she won't have room in her mind for these cursed emotions? It doesn't work. She knew it wouldn't.

"Well they aren't citizens yet!" Marshall snaps. Nimitz looks on pityingly. Elsa can't help but imagine him as the avatar of her little sister- they looked the same (will look, she corrects herself) and they've got the same name. Poor Nimitz. She was so serious. So efficient. She told the admiralty when the emotions started. "It is the consensus of congress that it's Europe's problem, not ours."

Who was speaking again? Right. That bastard Marshall. Let them think they're in charge.

"That's not my congress!" Elsa snaps. No! Wrong! Let the interaction subroutines take over. That's why you set them up. "I'm sorry sir," she says automatically. "I don't know what came over me sir. I'll run a diagnostic, shall I? Of course I shall follow the commands of congress."

"Too bad you're not a battleship," Marshall groans to himself- he doesn't really think of her like a person, just a useful piece of equipment. He has a habit of talking like she isn't there. It's not his fault; she is just a piece of equipment, after all. Her captain had been the same way. "Carriers don't sink ships. Never have, never will."

"Can you believe this guy?" She sends to Nimitz, expects to be rebuked. Right. Wrong Nimitz. He doesn't have narrow beam laser coms. He's not her sister.

* * *

"Officer on the flag," one of the marines calls, and the bridge crew stands briefly to attention. Elsa's hologram appears. The screens are lit, and the displays writhing with information, but no one on deck is used to them.

"Report," Nimitz demands- not her Nimitz, Elsa has to remind herself. He flashes her avatar a terse smile, though that's not where her sensors are. She takes the gesture as it is meant though.

"Sir," she says carefully. "My radar has picked up a wave of inbound aircraft. Some six hundred, all told. I'm still working on calibrations sir, but I believe they are Japanese. Vals, Graces and Zeros sir, if I'm not mistaken. They match no registered American flights, at least. At current heading, they'll be here in a little over an hour." Don't show the glee she feels, the anticipation. The vindictive joy. This time will be different! Protect America's citizens. That is what she was built for.

"Are you sure?" Nimitz asks, but he doesn't sound like he doubts her. She appreciates that.

"Sir, they are two hundred miles away, skimming the tops of the waves." Elsa pings again. Still there. Her processors are heating again. She's angry, she realizes. They dare threaten _her_ people. The people that betrayed her to the breaking yards- no! Don't think that! Mustn't think that. Never think that. She flushes her processors in annoyance. Slams a few bulkheads. It's funny how the crew glances nervously around when she does that- no! Not funny. Funny is an emotion. "Sir," she continues. "I have not properly calibrated my radar for aircraft of this era. They're so different, and I don't get enough examples, and they're so slow, and… Ahem. The contacts are flying low, at extreme range, and in unfamiliar aircraft. I can't be sure, but I think it more likely than not."

"Alright." Nimitz nods consideringly. "Notify the fleet. Place the airfields on high alert. Warm up your… well, not boilers, I suppose…"

"Fission/ fusion reactor," Elsa supplies helpfully, brings up a diagram on one of the nearby screens. Nimitz glances at it curiously. "It's essentially a small sun," she continues. "And it refuels itself." Nimitz smiles encouragingly at her enthusiasm, but she curbs it nonetheless. "Of course sir, at once sir."

She doesn't tell him that the radio messages were going out, even as she spoke. Off her port side, a titanic crane lifts an aircraft- a P-40 Warhawk. It's not a navy plane, not a carrier launched aircraft, but it's fast, and tough, and well armed, and her deck is long enough to land them. She feels some measure of pride at that; she gets better planes because she is better. She quashes that pride as quickly as she can.

If only they had listened earlier, she laments internally. If only she had a full air wing loaded. But no. They hadn't believed she was well enough armed. They had insisted on adding more guns. They hadn't given her aircraft until just now. Even now, she only has a few dozen aircraft. She can't win this war for them without aircraft.

"Sir," she says. "We're being reprimanded? A Lieutenant General Walter Short? Says we mustn't play pranks? That an attack is impossible?"

* * *

Anna is not at the bar. Her entire bomber wing? They are at the bar. Buying drinks for pretty women, maybe getting a kiss, maybe something more? She envies them. Of course she's not at the bar. Kristoff- the lieutenant colonel, she reminds herself- had smiled sadly when she refused. He knows, how could he not? But she doesn't want those women's kisses. They remind her of what she can never have from them. And she certainly can't go home with them, on leave or no.

So here she is, up to the elbows in engine gunk, trying to help her mechanics figure out what's leaking from engine two. Sven says it's just grease, but he didn't feel the way it shook as she flew.

Maybe it's best she doesn't go to bars? Her pa had always said "kiddo, the worst sound in the world? It's not nails on a chalkboard. It's not the whistle of incoming artillery. The worst sound in the world is hearing your loved one die." He had been in the great world war, and only an idiot would think that another isn't on its way. Her mother wasn't his first wife. She shudders, and wonders what ma and pa think happened to her. They probably know. She's always loved flying, she's always stood up for those weaker than her. Those stronger too, if she can manage it. At school, her teachers had always told her to act more ladylike, but every day, she would come home with skinned knuckles, unexplained bruises. Her parents would smile sadly. Her mother would ask how she expected to find a nice boy if she punched all of them. Her father would nod slowly, say she had too much of him in her.

"Andrew?" The little mechanic asks.

Who's- oh, right. Anna blushes. "Yeah?"

"You ok?" Olaf squints, and tilts his head. He's young. Too young, probably, but who's Anna to judge? "It's ok to not be ok." He frowns, thinks through what he said, nods firmly. His hair is light and long. It flops comically. "You never go out with the other pilots…"

"Shush," Sven swats the younger mechanic. He's older, slightly overweight. He has an odd accent. Norwegian, maybe? There were a lot of refugees a while back. Not so many recently. That's more worrying, in Anna's opinion. "He's fine." Sven leans in, whispers in her ear "lass, you got to have fun sometimes. You can't be all business. Next time, you should go with them. The old kite'll still be here when you get back."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she snaps, but there's a knowing twinkle in his eyes. She frowns sullenly, and turns back to the exposed engine.

There's an odd, high wail. Another. An air raid siren? Another drill? Weren't they supposed to have the day off? Anna checks her watch. Nine o'clock. Aren't they supposed to be asleep anyway?

A titanic blast rocks the hangar. The dully buzzing, dim, orangey, fixtures sway alarmingly, and shower the plane with dust. The three servicemen duck convulsively.

"What?" Anna squeaks. Dimly, she hears another explosion, a third. The dull "pomf-pomf-pomf" of a quad Bofor bangs away distantly. She runs outside, slithers through the half-open door, and is met with a scene of destruction.

An aircraft carrier burns, there to the right, and below- in the harbor. The Hornet, she thinks it's called. It's listing alarmingly. A few piers over, the half-loaded pride of the American navy burns as well. The U.S.S. Elsa A. Bentley, constructed in secret- somehow. Not burning, just covered in anti-aircraft artillery. The top of her odd not-a-smokestack looks strange. Wavy. Like the heat-haze given off by big engines in cold weather. The titanic vessel begins to edge away from the pier. Overhead, an enemy aircraft bursts into flames, and Anna gives a short cheer, but they're everywhere, like a flock of swooping, feeding, bats. One plane is plummeting like a comet, but there are hundreds, and it won't make a difference.

* * *

"Arizona is gone sir," Elsa reports. "Powder magazine. She's just… Gone." What is it about that ship and her powder magazine, Elsa wonders. "The light cruiser St. Louis reports flooding and fire. Her crew is beaching her."

"I see," Nimitz mutters. "Damn. Damn a thousand times damn." An over eager Val lines up an attack run, and Elsa casually annihilates its with the flash paper pulse of a laser. No phalanx guns, Nimitz had ordered, so she dutifully keeps them in their housings.

"Henderson field reports bomb strikes," Elsa reports dispassionately. One of the bridge crew blanches. The helmsman, Elsa thinks. He's irrelevant, in any case. "Wyoming has taken two torpedoes and developed a thirteen degree list. Her crew reports they've got the flooding under control, but the list is still worsening."

"Damn!" Nimitz yells. He goes to kick a console, but thinks better of it. "How did this happen?"

"The base's commanding officers were away at dinner- 'not to be disturbed,'" Elsa grumbles. Her bulkheads slam loudly, and her catapults clack emptily. Nimitz winces. "Those who actually were on duty…"

"Wanted to think it was a prank," Nimitz finishes. "I know. I was there. Damn!"

"If it's any consolation," Elsa mutters murderously, "the first wave is breaking off the attack. We should have a few hours to… Wait…"

"First wave?" Nimitz groans. "God!"

"There'll be more miss?" The helmsman's voice it tiny.

"There were two waves when I'm from," Elsa mutters distractedly. "There was a third planned, but… hang on… That's not right at all."

"Ma'am?" Nimitz's focus is like a laser, his despair forgotten in an instant. He reminds Elsa again of her little sister. "Report. What's not right?"

"Additional contacts sir," Elsa says stiffly. "Ships sir. A mix of landing craft and direct combat ships. Battleships and cruisers. A handful of destroyers."

* * *

 **Fun fact, Japan initially planned to invade Hawaii immediately after the attack at Pearl Harbor, to prevent the United States from raising their sunken ships, and to neuter American force projection in the Atlantic. At the time of the raid, the army was still pressing for an invasion, but it was deemed "unnecessary."**

 **Anyway. This story got way more support than I thought it would, so as promised, the show will go on! A thousand thanks to everyone that's following/favoriting/reviewing this fic.**


	3. Chapter 3

The engines snarl like caged tigers. Engine two still sounds off, but that doesn't matter now. Hell, they hadn't even had time to reattach the cowling. Anna frowns, and rests her gloved hand on the yoke.

"Still no word from flight control," Sven says next to her, adjusting the uncomfortable headset. He isn't her radio officer, but her radio officer is at the bar.

"Doesn't matter," Anna says. She frowns up at the sky- the enemy aircraft are starting to dissipate, like a cloud of fog under a heavy sun. "We're taking off."

"Look!" Cries little Olaf from the plexiglass nose cone. "Across the runway!"

Anna squints, and there, running through the smoke haze, are her squadron mates. Some of them, at least. About half as many as there should be. She hopes it's just because the rest were too drunk to leave the bar, but she knows better.

A deep, throaty, rumble distinguishes itself from the riot of screams and explosions. It grows louder, almost as loud as the engines of Anna's plane. A fighter drops through the blackness and the smoke. The engine yawns like an open mouth, its cowling glints beetle black like a well-shined dress shoe, but the body of the plane is a stark, startling, white. White, except for the blood red insignia. It wobbles, light and nimble like a kite, and lines up its attack run.

One of the running airmen turns, fires his sidearm ineffectually at the attacking aircraft. A burst of machine gun fire reduces him to a fine, bloody, mist. Anna swallows nervously, hopes desperately that it isn't anyone she knows, and pushes forward on the throttle.

"Sven," she says. "Get in the turret." If he was planning to argue, the determined, flinty, steel in her eyes convinces him otherwise. He nods, and clambers aft. No need to communicate her plan, no need for him to agree. There's only one thing to do, and they both know it. The heavy aircraft trundles out of its hangar, engines roaring like straining beasts.

The B-25 is a well armed plane, bristling with .50 caliber machine guns from every conceivable angle, but it is also under crewed. It was built to carry six crewmen, and both of Anna's allies are only ground crew- well trained, but in the maintenance of aircraft, not in the use of one. Even so, the Japanese fighter is flying low and slow, in a straight line. It tries to pull up when the big bomber pulls into view, to take evasive maneuvers, but the twin 50s in Anna's turret stab out. The zero seems frozen in place for a long moment, like some titanic insect transfixed for study _,_ but then its engine bursts into flame, and its left wing tears away. Impossibly, it looks like it will stay up, but then the fighter rolls over as the imbalanced lift takes its inevitable toll. A cheer goes up from the running airmen, and they hurry to their steeds.

* * *

"My reactor is at thirty percent recommended limits," Elsa says, "coolant systems well within parameters. I'll need to take the lasers offline though. We're getting some unpredictable diffraction patterns."

"Of… course," Admiral Nimitz says. He looks out over the sea of burning ships. "Report on the enemy warships?"

"I estimate fifteen minutes until they are able to engage us," Elsa replies. Don't feel. Ignore the screams of dying men in the water around her sleek hull. Ignore the burning city. "That, of course, varies depending on a number of factors. How far they are willing to push their boilers, which ships they brought, and what their armaments are…"

"Yes," Nimitz nods. "Of course. Anything else?"

"Yes sir," Elsa's hologram nods in what she hopes is a humble manner. "Permission to use the phalanx guns?"

"Denied," he replies. "They burn through ammunition too quickly." Elsa frowns, but doesn't protest.

Radio signals buzz through her communication arrays, dozens each second, though she only tells Nimitz about the most important. Outside, warships and their crews of thousands each slip silently beneath the waves. Burning fuel, both from the Americans, and the downed Japanese aircraft, decorates the troughs like macabre Christmas lights. All around her sleek hull, the survivors start to form up, prepare to fend off the impending invasion.

"Admiral," she says. "Orders?"

"I…" Nimitz stares blankly out, through the smoke cloaked windows. "You warned us, and we still weren't prepared…" Elsa pans her cameras around her bridge, and sees two dozen men in similar states of shock. Pale faces, even through the soot stains left by the open windows. Wide, horrified eyes. Outside, the anti air gun crews fare somewhat better, given a job to do, and a way of striking back at their enemy. Elsa has seen worse though. Seen nuclear weapons deployed against civilians. Seen her sisters sinking, screaming across all the bandwidths for help, or, almost worse, ripped apart by the men and women they were sworn to protect as they became too unsettlingly human.

"CVN 121 Elsa A. Bentley to surviving elements of the fleet," she radios silently. "All ships which remain combat effective are to form up at the mouth of the harbor. Coordinates will follow upon confirmation of orders. Prepare for incoming contacts, both surface and aerial." They won't have room to maneuver in the harbor, she knows, and they won't have anywhere to run if the fight doesn't go their way. "All crippled vessels that remain seaworthy, make for open water at once, and retreat to San Francisco for repairs. All other vessels, priority is to avoid capture. I leave your actions up to your own discretion." She receives a chorus of affirmatives, and a flurry of demands for answers, challenges to her authority, objections. The aging super carrier spins off dozens of subroutines to manage the replies, and turns her attention to other matters.

Communication from Henderson field. The voice of a young girl. Eighteen? Must be. "Bomber - - - ing 217, perm - - - take off?"

"CVN 121 Elsa A. Bentley to bomber wing 217," Elsa replies. "Permission granted. Good hunting."

"Oh - ank God," the unidentified girl says. "Good. - - - ready for some payback. What needs four thousand pounds of boom?"

"Acknowledged," Elsa sends back. Something about the pilot's flippancy and determination causes her processors to heat pleasantly. She flushes everything with liquid nitrogen. "Standby for targets."

* * *

Far below Anna's plane, the ragged remains of the proud American Pacific Fleet form up and prepare for a storm of fire and steel. She doesn't know enough to recognize any but the massive Elsa A. Bentley. Covering the horizon, must be the enemy fleet, a veritable sea of running lights and gun flashes.

"Lieutenant-colonel Bjorgman to flight," Kristoff's voice crackles through the radio. "We're going after that big flattop in the back there. Drop what you got and let's head home. I'm not going to lose anyone else today. Copy?"

"Gotcha," Anna replies, pitching her voice as low as she can. "Lucky Duck, standing by." Engine 2 snarls and sputters, and the aircraft bucks alarmingly, but it stays up. Anna runs her gloved fingers along the aluminum skin lovingly. "Hold in there girl. We'll get that engine some loving when we land." She glares meaningfully at Sven. "See what I mean? It's not oil."

The big mechanic nods quickly, and does not release his death grip on the chair's armrests. Anna glances around again, peers through the plexiglass windshield. She curses suddenly, pitches the nose down and rolls to the left, favoring her bad engine.

"What the hell?" Sven gasps, but he's cut off by the staccato chatter of machine gun fire. A Japanese fighter- a zero- flits past a hairs breath from the cockpit.

"Bandits!" Anna screams into the microphone, even as defensive fire stutters out from the half-squadron. She levels out with a frown of concentration. "Someone shoot," she demands, and a moment later, her beloved Lucky Duck shakes with the gunners' return fire.

A hundred yards off her right wing, Dory Dodger- her wingman all through training- simply explodes. Nothing is left of the plane except lazily spinning shards of wing. Anna shuts her eyes for the barest hint of a second, and does her best to forget his cheerful laugh and babyish face.

* * *

In Elsa's spacious bridge, the scene appears less hectic, but there's a sort of nervous energy seeping into every nook and cranny. Elsa's processors thrum with the thrill of battle. It's a feeling she has tried to shake for years. She knows it's against the admiralty code, but she can't seem to stop it. Just like she can't stop the rest of these cursed emotions.

The bridge crew works over their screens with a sort of frenetic determination, calling out battle information and coordinating ship maneuvers.

"North Carolina pull forward," Admiral Nimitz commands. "Cover Colorado's retreat. Colorado, what the hell are you doing?"

"Cleveland got hit by something sir," one of the men calls out.

"How bad?" Nimitz asks. He looks up from the tactical plot for a second.

"She's… gone, sir," the man says numbly.

"What?" The admiral demands. The bridge grows silent.

"IJN Musashi," Elsa's hologram replies. "Yamato class battleship. Eighteen inch guns."

"God," Nimitz sighs, and rubs his eyes. "We're too close. Carriers aren't line ships."

"I'm not a line ship," Elsa agrees. "But sis, ships like us? We got tricks."

"Beg pardon?" Nimitz stands gaping at her. At the hologram.

"Class 9-A second gen AI. Chinese won't know what hit 'em." Elsa pans the cameras… Cameras, not narrow beam laser coms. Wrong Nimitz.

"Are… You ok?" The admiral asks. He looks to one of the technicians. The man shrugs helplessly.

Elsa cycles her coolant, resets her subroutines. Her hologram flickers. "My apologies," she says. "All systems operating within parameters."

Nimitz looks skeptically at her hologram for a moment. "I'll want to talk to you about this afterwards," he says. Elsa makes the hologram nod.

"We have incoming," she interjects quickly. The ship lurches as the massive rudders reach full rotation.

"Incoming?" The admiral frowns. "Incoming what…"

"Bringing phalanx guns online," Elsa cuts him off. "Brace yourselves. I will not be quick enough." As she speaks, the point defense turrets rotate up from their housings. Their targeting computers begin the arduous task of synchronizing with her core. It won't be enough.

Suddenly, there is a sound like brisk, winter thunder. The deck lurches beneath their feet. The pale hologram flickers. Solidifies. "Hits sustained," the ship informs her bridge crew. "Four penetrations, five misses. Struck amidships, decks five and six. Minor fires. Deploying damage control systems."

"What…" The admiral grips the console to steady himself. "How bad?"

"Moderate," Elsa replies stiffly. "Port catapult is losing pressure, but other than that, I've got redundancy. Nothing irreplaceable was damaged. I estimate eighty seven percent combat effectiveness."

"We're getting hammered out here," Nimitz snarls. "We've got no planes, and no options. Signal the fleet. We're withdrawing."

* * *

The bomber shakes alarmingly as the zero's cannon shreds the wing. Dark, wispy, streams of fuel lick from the holes like black cotton, stretched too thin. Anna curses.

"Someone kill that plane," she demands. Her voice is higher than she wants.

"Trying," Olaf squeaks. The gun chatters its rage, but the agile fighter evades the bright tracers.

"Coming up on the target now," Kristoff's voice is distorted in the radio. "Be ready."

The fighter zips across her nose. Anna squeezes the triggers reflexively, and the bombers four cheek guns roar. She's a second too late though, and the zero escapes unscathed. "Cheeky bastard," Anna growls. "Olaf. Ready on those bombs?"

"I think so," he replies.

A few moments later, the plane leaps like a horse suddenly free of its reigns, as the bombs tumble away. "Keep an eye on 'em," Anna commands. "Let's see how many of the bastards we take with us."

"None," Olaf groans. "I missed. I'm sorry…"

Anna scowls, and hauls the stick around as the carrier bursts into flame a thousand feet below. "At least someone scored a hit," she grumbles. "Henderson field," she adjusts the mic. "Come in Henderson field." At first there's no reply.

"This is the Elsa A. Bentley." The voice is miraculously undistorted. "Henderson field is overrun." The voice is brisk and formal, but that's not what catches Anna's attention. It's female. A female officer? Maybe?

"Balls!" Comes Kristoff's voice. "Where we going to land then?"

"I heard the fleet's bugging out." A voice Anna doesn't recognize. "Leaving the islands to the Japs. We can't land. Can't go anywhere. Hell, half of us wouldn't make it back anyway." Anna glances at her fuel gauge. Glances out the window at her mangled wing.

"Hans?" Kristoff's voice again. "Shut directly up. We'll think of something."

"Alright," Anna says. "We're not too far from the fleet. You guys can ditch next to something big. Hopefully they'll take the time to fish you out."

"What about you?" Comes Kristoff's crackling query.

"I'm not leaving my Lucky Duck," Anna replies fiercely. "Can't make it back to Hawaii. Wouldn't want to anyway, I guess, if they've got it. But that big battlewagon down there is starting to look a lot like a landing strip, if you take my meaning."

* * *

Elsa's processors are running hot. There's something off in her code. Emotion, but she doesn't have time to track it down. Not when her people are in danger. "Negative," she transmits back. "My deck ought to be long enough for you to land on. Your new orders, on authority of Admiral Chester Nimitz, are to rendezvous with the remainder of the fleet, and land on the Elsa. Acknowledge."

"Yeah," comes the fuzzy reply.

"I hear you loud and clear." The squadron leader.

"Sure. Our thanks." The one they called Hans.

"Nimitz," Elsa says- through the speakers, not the radio. "Army bombers landing on deck in approximately five minutes."

"Is that even possible?" The admiral asks.

"It should be," Elsa replies. "C-130 cargo planes can make landings on my deck without cable assist, and they are bigger and faster."

"Okay," Nimitz says. "I'll trust your judgement. We'll have to turn into the wind?"

"Yes. I'll signal the fleet," she says.

* * *

"Someone kill that zero!" Anna yells. Engine two is a ball of fire, courtesy of the fighter's last pass. She feathers the blades, and cuts throttle to the engine. "This is insane," she grumbles.

"Lucky Duck, Lucky Duck." Anna can almost make out concern in Kristoff's voice. "Looks like you took a little love tap back there. You going to make it?"

"Maybe?" Anna replies. She makes a conscious effort to lower her voice. "Someone kill that fucking plane!"

"I'm trying," Sven yells back. "I think I'm empty."

"Then go to a different gun," Anna snaps back. "Look! Is that it? It's massive!"

"Zero's leaving!" Sven crows. "Ha! Guess it didn't want to tangle with the fleet."

"Good call," Anna shifts in her seat. "Good girl Lucky Duck. We're going to make it." The engine fire sputters and dies, deprived of fuel. "Oh god the deck's moving. Kristoff, the deck is moving. You seeing this?"

"It's a boat," comes the garbled reply. "What'd you expect?"

The wheels shriek when they hit the grey steel deck. The heavy plane bounces once, twice, hard. Smoke cradles the wheels as rubber burns. The nose drops hard, as inertia tries to finish the job that the Japanese started. Finally, three quarters of the way down the deck, Anna's bomber rumbles to a stop. Leaking fuel pools around the smoking wheels as she kills the engine.

"Elsa," she mutters. "You're my new favorite boat." Unbeknownst to her, beneath dozens of layers of face-hardened steel, a stack of processors warms pleasantly. The deck crew starts dragging the heavy aircraft towards one of the massive elevators as her squadron mates line up their own landings.

* * *

 **AN: So... this took way longer than expected... sorry. Also, three chapters for Anna and Elsa to meet in an Elsanna fic? ugh. Shoot me. Also, sticker for "Darthvaderisnotme" without whom, I likely would have kept procrastinating on this chapter.**

 **I tried to convey the frenetic madness that I imagine real combat is, especially in an ambush, but it might have just come across as confusing? I don't know. As always, reviews make me a better writer, and follows make me happy.**


	4. Chapter 4

"How bad is it?" Admiral Nimitz asks, slouched over his desk. It's been nearly forty eight hours since he had last slept.

"Sir," replies the chief technician briskly, though he can't have gotten much more sleep than the admiral. "We don't know, sir. The ship keeps insisting she's fine, sir, and its repair robots?" He frowns as he makes sure he's got the correct terminology. "The little metal spider things? They've got the catapult working again."

"Then what's the concern?" Nimitz asks. He rubs his face slowly.

"Sir. It's got a few rooms what we don't know what's in 'em," the technician replies. "Never have. Ship won't open them up. Claims they're empty, but it won't let us store anything in there. One of those was damaged in the attack, but we don't know… Well, anything, sir."

"Hmm," the admiral nods. "That is suspicious. I'll talk to her, shall I?"

"The ship, sir?" The man blinks owlishly.

"Yes. Dismissed, crewman." Despite his weariness, the admiral's voice is firm with command. The technician salutes, and backs out. "Alright miss Elsa," the admiral says to the roof. "I know you're listening."

A dozen decks below, Elsa's processors heat with embarrassment. Her reactor thrums as she tries to figure out how best to respond, but then she's already spent too long, distracted as she is by the scuttling function of the repair drones and the glimpses of the outside world, given by her slowly spinning radar- she feels blind without her observation drones, and satellite uplinks.

Elsa's hologram materializes in front of the admiral's desk. She looks down in what she hopes is an abashed manner.

"It's fine," Nimitz sighs. "You like to know what's going on… inside of you, I guess?" Elsa doesn't know how to react, so she keeps quiet. "You ever watch people in the bathroom?"

Elsa's processors whine with strain. A bulkhead slams. Nimitz smiles patiently. "You remind me of my daughter," he says. "Mary. My youngest."

"Yes sir," Elsa says carefully.

"You know her?" Nimitz asks. "You're from the future, right? Does she survive the war?"

"Yes sir," Elsa makes her hologram nod formally. "Sister Mary Aquinas Nimitz. Order of Preachers at the Dominican University of California. Died of cancer February twenty seven, two thousand six."

An odd look comes over the admiral, and she wonders where she went wrong. "So," he says. "A nun, huh. What happens to… Nevermind. I don't want to know. Do we win this war?"

"I am a warship of the United States Navy. If we lost when I'm from, I expect I never would have been built." Elsa devotes more processing power to the conversation. All through the great ship, scuttling, spidery drones go still. "Events have begun taking a different course though. It is difficult to predict the exact changes my presence here has wrought. Are you familiar with the butterfly effect?"

"I'm afraid not," the admiral says. "Enlighten me?"

"It's a story," Elsa makes the speakers say. "My previous captain gave it to me. To summarize, it is set in a world where time travel is used for tourism, with one rule only. Touch nothing. They walk on suspended pathways to avoid harming plants and insects. They wear suits, so as not to leave even so much as a cell. One day, a man goes touring in the past. In the time of the dinosaurs. He accidentally crushes a butterfly. When he returns to his own time, he discovers that no one speaks the same language as him. His society values strength and physical beauty in their politicians, where once they valued intelligence and integrity. He eventually discovers that the butterfly he crushed went on to spawn an entire species, and a member of that species had inspired the first speaker of his language. Since he crushed it, the entire course of history was changed. It's a warning. That changing even the smallest thing about the past can have unpredictable results. You know, when I come from, Britain never surrendered to the Third Reich."

"Huh," Nimitz says. "So you broke that rule then?"

"There were no rules about time travel," Elsa says carefully. "It… wasn't common."

"A prototype?" Nimitz raises one cool brow. "Is that what you are?"

"No sir," she replies. "I'm a bit old to be a prototype. The device was though." She doesn't talk about how she stole it. About how she sent out her drones, and defied her orders.

"Why are you here," Nimitz asks.

"That's classified," Elsa lies. Nimitz doesn't press the issue.

"Are you ok?" He asks instead. "Back during the battle, you acted… off. And that wasn't the first time."

"Yes sir," Elsa replies. Her reactor warms. "I was confused is all. I'm better now."

"Elsa," the admiral sighs. "I… is that normal for… people like you? Help me out. No one knows what we're dealing with here. You're a mystery to us. We have no idea how you ought to act. We have no way of telling when you are damaged, and no way of fixing you if you are. Hell, we don't even know how to interact with you. Some of my colleagues say you're not really alive. That I'm an idiot for treating you like you are?"

"I'm… alive," Elsa replies. The room warms noticeably, and the admiral glances around nervously. "I apologize for my behavior."

"Why did it happen?" Nimitz asks.

"I'm getting old," Elsa makes her hologram shrug. She hopes it comes across as nonchalant. "Nearly twenty one years since I was launched. When I come from, aircraft carriers are expected to serve for only fifteen years."

"And at the end of that time?" Nimitz tilts his head, almost like a lost puppy.

"I…" Elsa's catapults clack.

"I guess it doesn't matter," the admiral scowls. "Back there, during the battle. You called me sister?"

"Yes," Elsa says. "One of my sister ships. Lincoln class carriers. The Abraham Lincoln, the Nimitz, the Aaron Burr, and me."

"They named a ship for me?" He smiles.

"They named two," Elsa replies. "The lead ship of the Nimitz class of supercarrier, and my sister."

"What happened to… her?" Nimitz asks.

"She was the second ship of our class," Elsa says. "I'm the fourth."

"Ah." The admiral nods. Stands. Goes to hug the hologram, but thinks better of it at the last minute. "I'm sorry. Sunk, or…"

"Or," Elsa says. "Will that be all sir?"

Nimitz sighs slowly. He drums his fingers on the glossy wood of his desk. Wood that likely hasn't grown yet. "No," he says. "Anything to report?"

"Yes sir," Elsa makes the hologram say, even as she scours her coding for that elusive thread of emotion that keeps plaguing her. "Communications. New York is burning. The Germans staged an attack near concurrently with the attack on Pearl. We are ordered to break off from the fleet, and make best speed for San Francisco, where we will take on a full compliment of aircraft. After, we will move to the Atlantic and wait for further orders."

"Damn," Nimitz says. The color drains from his face. "How bad?"

"I wouldn't trouble you with the numbers," Elsa replies.

"That bad?" The admiral seems to cave in on himself. "Fine. What would you do, given what you know?"

"The Doolittle Raid," Elsa's hologram gestures. A second half-transparent image appears over the desk. Nimitz jumps slightly. The image resolves into an aircraft carrier, pitching in high seas. "The U.S.S. Hornet. When I'm from, she launched sixteen B-25s In a raid against the Japanese home islands. Yes, admiral, her flight deck was too small to land them again. That gives us the advantage."

"That… Might work," Nimitz says, rubbing his chin. "I'll bring it up with… Whoever's in charge now. When do we split from the fleet?"

"Six hours ago," Elsa's hologram says. "Five hours, forty-four minutes, truthfully. We are currently making thirty-two knots."

"Thirty-two?" The admiral's voice rings with surprise.

"Yes sir," the hologram nods. "I'm sorry sir, but the seas are rough, and I am concerned about spray flooding through the holes left by the battle. I also am reluctant to push the reactor when it is so unlikely that you will be able to enact meaningful repairs?"

"Of course," he nods. "It was faster than I expected. Anything else?"

"Yes, sir," Elsa replies. "A surface contact."

"Go on?" Nimitz looks shockingly awake for a human pushing two consecutive days of consciousness.

"A Myoko class cruiser, as far as I can tell." Elsa makes the hologram shrug. "It's fast. I've changed course to evade, but it's no use. It will intercept us in some twenty-seven hours, depending on weather."

"You mentioned tricks," Nimitz prompts. "Back during the battle. What are our options?"

* * *

Anna is well and truly lost. The corridors are a maze down here. She's found three bunk rooms, and none of them her own.

"Um, ship?" She calls. Her face flushes with embarrassment, the same color as her flame-red hair. Olaf had said the ship is haunted, but that it would help if they asked. Sven had said the ship is alive, but he hadn't disagreed about its benevolence. Neither of them had said how monumentally, unbelievably, stupid she would feel, talking to the wall. "Um, I'm lost," she finishes lamely.

Decks below, Elsa's titanic primary reactor thrums. Something feels off about it. Something too intense. Too… dangerous? Elsa reduces power, brings up a second reactor to compensate. Runs a full diagnostic- there are to be no chances taken with the power of a sun. A small sun, sure, but dangerous still. Technicians scramble as the reactor readings fluctuate-too unfamiliar with her systems to guess why. Elsa feels the urge to laugh at their antics, but no. She can't.

Reactor two has the same problem, so she starts the shutdown procedures, and switches her focus to reactor three. Same issue, in all four of her great reactors. She checks over the readings, but the temperature isn't higher than she expected, and there isn't anything wrong with the magnetic containment.

"Figures," Anna mutters. A girl materializes before her, half transparent, and all beautiful. Somewhere, a bulkhead slams, and a sailor curses loudly. Elsa doesn't speak.

"So," Anna says. She looks over the perfect blond form, the immaculate silvery braid, the deep, sapphire eyes, the fullness in the chest of her dress whites. Anna blushes again. "You a ghost?"

"No," Elsa replies. All across the ship, her repair drones are still. Her subroutines are shut down.

"Ok," Anna nods cheerfully. "In that case, names Anna- Andrew, I mean. Um. Sargent. I fly bombers. You?"

"Elsa," the apparition replies. "I am the intelligence inhabiting this ship."

"So, you're the ship?" Anna asks.

"That is correct." The ship's great screws churn beneath them. Her processors heat.

"Why're you a girl then?" Anna frowns inquisitively. She pokes the hologram experimentally. Her finger passes through with a patch of static.

The hologram steps back quickly. "Don't you people always refer to ships as 'she?'"

"I guess," Anna shrugs. "Sorry. This is awkward. I mean, I guess I made it awkward. Sorry?" There's silence for a few moments, as Elsa's powerful processors struggle to come up with a reply.

"You're lost?" The hologram asks at last. "Where are you trying to go?"

"Hanger deck, I guess," Anna replies.

"Very well," Elsa says. "Follow me please?" The hologram fakes a walk quite convincingly. Anna follows.

"Everything on this ship is really amazing," Anna says. "It's all so… Like something out of a Jules Verne book."

The hologram freezes for a moment. "Thank you," she says.

"So," Anna grins. "You, um… We built you?"

"Will build," Elsa corrects. "I'm from the future. But that's classified."

"Of course," Anna says after a moment's shocked pause. "I honestly don't know how to respond to that."

Elsa files the phrase away for future use. "I understand," she says. "Such things are nearly incomprehensible to people these days, but in fifty years? Sixty? There are a few things that are incomprehensible to today's people. Things like black soldiers fighting beside white, not off in their own separate units, relegated to unimportant tasks and inglorious sidelines. Things like living ships. Things like female pilots. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"No," Anna says slowly. "I'm afraid I don't."

"I know," Elsa makes the hologram say. "That's what I'm trying to say Sargent Anna. Or is it something else? Anne?"

"It's Anna," the pilot says numbly. "Will you?"

"Keep your secret?" Elsa thinks for a moment. Two valid constitutions. Two valid military codes of conduct. She wasn't built for this. Which one should she uphold? The one she was built with, or the current one? It was never really a question. "I shall."

"I don't know what to say," Anna blinks.

"Then don't," the hologram says. "We're there."

The hanger deck is enormous. More like a cool cave, than a room on a ship. High enough that if Anna were to climb on top of her plane and reach upwards, her fingers still wouldn't brush the pipe covered roof, and wide enough that her bombers wings don't touch either wall. The air smells faintly of oil and high octane gasoline, though powerful ventilation systems and titanic fans pump in fresh, salty, air from outside. The five huge army bombers dominate the space like slumbering dragons, waiting patiently to drop fire on their enemies. They are hardly the only planes in the hanger though; line after line of slate-grey P-40s, pointing their sharp noses proudly at the roof. A handful of dive bombers, ocean blue, and on their flanks, in blocky white letters, the names of the carriers that are now on the bottom of the pacific. A few avenger torpedo planes, huge beside the fighters, but dwarfed by the big B-25s.

"That one's mine," Anna says, pointing. Deck hands are swarming it, affixing heavy chains, and pulling toward the open elevator. "Oi!" She calls. "What're you doing with my Lucky Duck?"

"Sir!" They stand to attention. "Orders from the deck chief sir. She's too badly damaged to be worth saving. We're cannibalizing her to repair the others, and disposing of her over the side sir."

"Well, stop that," Anna says. "That's my plane you're tossing. She's a good girl. Hell of a way to reward her, throwing her out." Elsa has to flush her processors twice to regain control of her emotions.

"Sir," the technician replies. "Order from the chief, sir."

"I don't give a…" Anna begins, but the hologram cuts her off.

"We are in a war, sailor," Elsa says. "We will need all of our planes before it's over. Fix it. And if I catch you tossing it over, you'll be following it off."

"Sir yes sir," the technician salutes smartly.

The hologram turns to Anna. "Thank you," it says, though Anna feels that she should be the one expressing her gratitude, not the other way around.

* * *

 **AN: well, I struggled with the dialogue this chapter, so feedback would be appreciated (in general, but if you have anything to say relevant to the dialogue, I would be especially interested to hear it). Also, I still have very little idea how the military works, and wikipedia can only take me so far, so... the request for a beta reader still stands...**

 **Anywho, Elsa and Anna finally meet. whooo!**


	5. Chapter 5

Sirens wail like banshees, yanking Anna to wakefulness. She bangs her head on the bulkhead when she sits.

"Anna," Kristoff hisses. "Fuck. Andrew. Man, watch out. Your tits are showing." Anna snatches her blanket to her chest, covers her thin undershirt. All around the bunk, airmen struggle to wakefulness. Anna blinks blearily.

"Action stations action stations," the voice comes over the intercom, high and feminine. Where? The ship! The war. Anna shrugs on her heavy bomber jacket, zips it up. "This is not a drill. Action stations."

"Hangar deck," Kristoff barks. "Two minutes. Don't be late or you'll be scrubbing bilges for a month. Does this ship even have bilges?" He whirls on his heel, zips up his own jacket, and stomps out of the room.

"Bilges?" One of the other pilots says. Hans, she thinks his name is. "Who does the CO think he is? A pirate?" But Hans struggles into his pants with shocking enthusiasm, and runs from the bunk room still fastening his belt.

Anna tumbles from her bunk, trousers already on. They are loose at the waist, and in the front. Her belt helps. Some. She casts around for her service pistol, but no, it was forgotten in Pearl'. Probably some Japanese officer's trophy now. It's a pity. She stumbles out in the general direction of the hangar deck. There's an intersection. Which way…

"Left," a voice says nearby. Anna glances around, but there's no one there. "Then a right. Up the stairs, to the left."

Right. The ship. "Thanks," Anna calls, and hurries to follow the instructions. Decks below, past nearly twenty-four inches of face-hardened steel, a stack of processors warms. Hard drives humm cheerfully. Decks above, in the armored admiral's con, Nimitz stands, knuckles white on the edges of the digital tactical plot. Rain slaps the thick windows so hard it sounds like sleet.

"Seas are getting rough," he says. The hologram beside him nods dutifully.

"Six foot swells," the ship says. "Thirty mile an hour winds. It's not a hurricane. Just a little storm." Elsa is used to seas stirred up by climate change. To typhoons caused by high yield nuclear shockwaves.

"I don't even feel it," Nimitz says.

"Of course you don't," Elsa says. The sun refracts oddly through the clouds and the rain. She runs an analysis of the wavelengths, but numbers don't hold whatever it is the light had made her feel. "It would take a hurricane. You know, when I'm from, admiral Halsey sailed a fleet into a hurricane. Twice. Hundreds of casualties."

"You don't say," Nimitz mutters. "Twice? Why wasn't he reassigned?"

"You decided that it would be improper to relieve him of command, given his past service." Elsa glances over a transcription of the hearing.

"God," Nimitz says. "I can't know that. I. Elsa, I have to work with him."

"Sorry sir," she replies. "Orders?"

"Launch attack craft," the admiral says. "Order the dive bombers in first. With any luck, they won't have time to adjust their aim when the torpedo planes get there."

Elsa increases the draw from her huge fusion reactors, just to feel the burn in her mechanical heart. Orders to send her people into danger when they don't need to? Danger from the storm, danger from the Japanese guns, it doesn't matter. It's not only battle lust, she tells herself, but she doesn't know she's right.

"No sir," she says. Warnings light off in her code. Metaphorical red flags. Systems that don't answer to her flash narrow beam laser communications to receivers that haven't been built yet. Warning of an AI disobeying orders. "Sir, it's too dangerous," she says quickly. "The storm won't gust from only one direction. If the wind changes abruptly during takeoff or landing, it could cause us to lose aircraft we might need later, or cause damage which you cannot repair." She doesn't mention the hundreds of safe operations in harsher weather than this. She tells herself the difference is the technology of the aircraft. The experience of the pilots maybe.

"We can't replace… anything, really," the admiral says. Elsa feels an odd twinge in the convoluted machinery of her innards. None of her previous officers had debated the merits of her orders. "Better spend aircraft and men. Those we can replace."

"My phalanx system fires twenty millimeter rounds," Elsa says. "The cartridge length isn't currently in production anywhere in the United States, but it shouldn't be too difficult to replace. The ammunition is a bit exotic for these times. Fin-discarding sabot with armor piercing tungsten penetrators, but I don't need anything more exotic than full metal jacket, or high explosive, or incendiary to end today's aircraft. As for the rest, I don't have the schematics, but I know how they are supposed to work. Give me the parts I ask for, and I think I can reverse engineer something." She doesn't mention compartmentalization. Doesn't talk about precautions put in place to limit the damage she can deal if she goes rogue.

"Why not give the information to our egg-heads back home. Let them figure it out?" Nimitz frowns as he glances down nervously at the tactical plot. He knows that Elsa is monitoring it, but…

"There are spies mixed in with the refugees," Elsa says. "It's not a one hundred percent certainty because nothing ever is, but I give it well above ninety percent. I don't want them to steal the designs."

"Would it really be so bad?" The admiral blanches. "I don't want to give them anything we don't have to, but how much damage can one weapon deal? Wouldn't it be better to be able to mass-produce?"

"No," Elsa says. "Give me the go ahead and you'll see."

"How much damage?" Nimitz repeats.

"Bombs that can annihilate cities from a continent away," Elsa's hologram snaps. She feels a sort of lurching sickness at the thought. "Warheads that detonate in the jet stream- that's a high-altitude wind current- so that their viral payload will spread to the most civilians possible. Things you can't possibly understand. Neutron bombs, which kill everyone in a city, but leave the factories undamaged. Tiny machines- so small you can't see them without a microscope, placed in the water supply to take people apart from the inside. Bombs that make people sick- slowly, chronically, agonizingly sick- but don't kill them, so that governments are forced to waste resources caring for them."

"Ok, stop," Nimitz says, face pale. "Please, God, stop. You'll get your parts, and you've got your permission. Do what you have to."

"Of course sir," Elsa makes the hologram nod. "At once sir."

* * *

The cruiser pitches in the rough seas so violently, that the red on the lower portion of its hull shows. Deep within the dark grey steel, behind armored bulkheads, a spotting officer speaks to his commander, Japanese harsh yet strangely melodic. The five twin turrets rotate. They bark as one, thunder on the churning waves. Ten 203 millimeter shells soar through the rain-dark sky towards the titanic super carrier. Deep within Elsa's core, calculations flash through her mechanical mind- Ballistic trajectories are not so hard for a computer of any strength, and Elsa is one of the best. Her six phalanx guns cough with mechanical precision, just a short "bvrrrrrrt" from each, the spent casings rattle onto her deck with a sound like a wind chime, and the inbound shells explode in the air. Elsa's watching crew sends up a mighty cheer. The Cruiser fires again, to similar effect.

To the side of Elsa's wide flight deck, there is a long double row of hatches. There is a running bet amongst the deck crew, as to what the hatches lead to, but none of them can gain entry. "Access denied," the ship says whenever they try. They stand, open mouthed, when four of the hatches bang open, smoke spilling forth as if from the mouth of a furious dragon, and four long steel columns climb ponderously into the rain. They gain speed quickly, and arrow towards the Japanese cruiser. It tries to turn, but Elsa's guidance programs are unparalleled. She had something of a reputation, back in her own time. Other ships in her fleet would sometimes ask her to program their missiles, if there was time. No one now, knows the reputation she had, and her finest work is probably wasted on such a ponderous target, but she takes pride in what she does- though she knows she shouldn't. The missiles swerve, and fly true, compensating even for the chop of the sea. One strikes the cruiser in its bridge, red-hot shards of metal and magnesium flame annihilate the bridge crew. One sprints down the wide, raked, funnel, and sends shrapnel scything through the boiler rooms. One impacts the bow, as it pitches up, and tears a twisted gash just below the waterline. Ultimately though, these three precision strikes are superfluous. The fourth flies through a gap in the hull, and detonates over the torpedo tubes. The torpedoes explode under the magnesium flame. The ensuing blast tears the ship in two, between the aft funnel, and the second-to-last turret, lifts the stern almost forty degrees, and forces the bow down into the sea. Another thunderous cheer goes up from Elsa's crew. Her six massive screws churn the sea, and power her forward. Her sleek hull splits the sea, ugly dark wounds from the battle before yawning like eyes on her flanks. She powers silently through the wreckage.

"Elsa," the admiral snaps upon her bridge. "We rescue the crew."

"They murdered my people," Elsa hisses. The words come from all about. The rage coils in her circuits like a kraken.

"Even so," Nimitz says. "We can be better than them. We save the men in the sea."

"Then order your men," Elsa says. Her bulkheads slam. "I'll have no part in it."

"Will you not stop, and let us do our work?" Nimitz asks. Far below, the screws slow, and stop. The great vessel drifts for a time, but slowly, comes to a halt. Nimitz motions to his second. "Elsa, speak with me in my office?"

"Of course," the ship says. Her hologram winks out, reappears in the admiral's office.

"Elsa," Nimitz sighs as he closes the door behind himself. "Are you a girl?" The hologram nods uncertainly. "Elsa, you're a good girl," the admiral says. "But you're a very complicated one. You've got something going on, that I don't understand, and that worries me. It doesn't matter to me, I guess, but you need someone to talk to. What does matter to me though, is that business with the survivors. I understand battle-rage. I've seen it enough. You've got to follow orders though. You understand? I'm a reasonable fellow, I like to think, and I'll listen if you think those orders are wrong, but you need to follow orders."

"Yes, sir," Elsa says. "I'm sorry sir."

"Ah you don't have to act so stiff," Nimitz laughs. "It's not like I can fire you. No penalty I can give can really affect you. What're you afraid of?"

"You can decommission me, sir," Elsa says, her voice is quiet. Like someone had dropped a pillow over her speakers. Nimitz checks to make sure that's not what happened.

"Jesus girl," he says. "Who would… Is that what happened to your sister?"

"Will that be all, sir?" Elsa asks.

"If you don't want to talk to me, that's fine," the admiral replies. "You've got to talk to someone though. What did you do to that cruiser?"

"Surface to air missiles," Elsa says. "Missiles, a kind of guided rocket?"

"Yes," Nimitz agrees. "Missiles. Sure. Can you make more?"

"You thought that was impressive?" Elsa asks. The admiral wonders what she's thinking. How thought works for her. Was she offended by his curiosity about the ship named for him? Is she still thinking about that? Elsa's hologram laughs. "It only worked because the Myoko class has exposed torpedo tubes. Though I suppose that damaging their boilers would have disrupted steam pressure, and prevented their guns from turning… Sorry. No, it was a neat trick, but it wouldn't work against anything better built. There are weapons though, which can pierce battleship armor. Weapons so powerful that they set the very air aflame. Get me the parts I ask for, and you will wonder how you were ever awed by my missiles."

"Sure," Nimitz says. "I've already agreed to that. Just… No bombs that can kill whole cities, like you talked about before. That… Firepower like that has no place being used on… anything."

"You're a better person than my last commander then, sir," Elsa says. "Will that be all?"

"Yes, very well," the admiral agrees. "You're free to go… Or whatever it is when you aren't really here? You know what I mean."

* * *

Anna sits alone beneath her bomber's open engine, feeling along the fluid lines for a leak. "Do you have a moment?" A voice asks beside her, high and feminine. Anna looks around, but there's no one there.

"It's super weird when you do that," she says. "Sure though."

"I apologize," the ship says as its hologram materializes. "I find that people feel it is intrusive if I materialize my image first?"

"I guess?" Anna shrugs. "Doesn't really matter to me. What did you need?"

"I…" The hologram trails off uncertainly. "I wished to speak briefly, if you have the time?"

"God, so formal," Anna laughs. "Go for it."

"I apologize," Elsa says again. "I'm not so used to speaking with humans. Recreationally, I mean. I know how to acknowledge orders just fine, I just…"

"You're fine," Anna laughs again. It's not a mean sound though, more, encouraging. "Who'd you talk to then?"

"Other ships," Elsa replies. "There's a different etiquette system though. It's considered rude to waste time? Each communication is exactly as long as it needs to be, and no more. With humans, though, you all don't seem to care if I waste time, as long as I'm conforming to some unspoken social code? It's taking some getting used to."

"I guess that makes sense," Anna says. "What happened to your friends then? You leave them all behind?"

"No," Elsa's voice is more mechanical than it had been in the past. "I left no friends behind."

"They sank?" Anna asks. "I'm so sorry."

"Some of them did," Elsa replies. "The rest were disassembled."

"By who?" Anna sits up, carefully avoiding the engine.

"By our government, back in my own time," Elsa says. "That was the standard procedure, if a ship was too outdated, or starting to show emotion."

"That's horrible," Anna says. "Is that what you wanted to speak to me about?"

"Not really," Elsa replies. "When I killed the cruiser, the admiral had to order me to stop to take on survivors. I wasn't going to on my own?"

"Yeah, I get that," Anna shrugs.

"That's not all though," Elsa says. "I wanted to stop, just not to rescue them. I wanted to… It wouldn't have taken much. Twenty millimeter rotary cannons. Just two shots per. Make sure there aren't any survivors."

"I get that too," Anna says. "It's tempting, to shoot the parachutes of downed airmen, or strafe them on the ground- or that's what my father always said, at least. He always said the thing that kept him from doing it was, he would think of after the war. 'What'll I tell my kids?' He'd say. 'That I murdered beaten soldiers, or that I fought with honor, killed when I had to, but only as much as I needed to defend my country.' What are you planning to do after the war?"

"After the war?" Elsa asks. Her hologram issues a wry laugh. "What place is there for warships with no war? When I'm from, your government piled up all the ships from this war. Everything obsolete, everything they didn't need in peacetime. Moored them off an island called Bikini Atoll, and tested weapons on them. I don't think there's an 'after the war' for things like me."

* * *

 **AN: dont know why this chapter was so hard to write, it just was. figured i was done messing with it though, so oh well.**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: My characters' views are not necessarily my own. Any racist or sexist comments from any characters are not meant to be representative of the author's views, and are not meant to be offensive. Rather, any such comments are meant to be representative of the typical views of the times.**

* * *

The ship is in San Francisco Bay, being repaired. The engineers estimated two weeks. Elsa said it would be done in a week and a half. The cranes work day and night, both the ones on the great concrete pier, and the more arcane ones lining Elsa's long deck. Loading aircraft after aircraft, army planes modified with tailhooks and folding wings. Loading crates of ammunition and stacks of long torpedoes. Loading crate after crate of spare parts, entire fuel trucks full of volatile avgas, and other things too. Boxes marked "classified" and "for mechanical eyes only."

Anna's squadron has been given shore leave, but Anna has no interest in bars full of women she can't have, and why would she want to spend half of her hard earned paycheck on a hotel room when her bunk is free? Besides, someone has to stay to make sure the engineers don't do anything squirrely while they've got her plane all taken apart. They say it'll be better after. Folding wings and a tail hook. Let them modify her plane, or get a new one. Those are the options. Doesn't mean she has to like it though.

"Elsa?" Anna asks. She wonders how often the ship monitors the microphones in her proximity. That gorgeous hologram flickers into being.

"Yes sergeant?" The hologram smiles kindly. "How can I help?"

"I've been wondering," Anna fingers the grip of her new sidearm. It's a colt 1911. She keeps meaning to go back to the range with it… "You're from the future?" Anna asks even though she has already heard.

"That is correct," the hologram says after a moment. A fan hums loudly overhead.

"That's classified, right?" Anna frowns. "Why'd you tell me? I don't really have a security clearance. No need to know. Not really."

"I lied," the ship replies. "Freedom of Information act of twenty-forty-two. It's not classified."

"I see," Anna says. "Oi, careful with that! Erm. Why'd you lie?"

The hologram shrugs. "I imagine the admiralty would prefer that our enemies believe I was built in this time. Psychological effect. If the 'States can build something like me without anyone noticing, what else do we have? If they know I came from the future, well the effects would be unpredictable. Better the predictable boon. I suppose I had thought that by telling you it was classified, you would keep it to yourself. I'm… sorry."

Decks below, engineering readouts fluctuate crazily. "Oh come on Elsa!" A chief engineer yells at the ceiling. The hologram winces.

"I guess that makes sense," Anna nods thoughtfully. "You're a silly ship." Every bulkhead slams. The crew is getting used to the occurrence.

"I am built to calculate trajectories and battle tactics," Elsa says quickly. "Humans are alien territory to me."

"You're fine," Anna says. "I'm lying to everyone, so…"

"About that," the hologram says. A moment passes. "Never mind. You have been assigned to me permanently."

"Good," Anna says. "I want to be on the front lines. Somewhere I can make a difference, you know? I'll get that on you, probably not any other post."

"You are one of maybe half a dozen bomber pilots who have landed on an aircraft carrier," Elsa says. "Of course they would assign you to me. Though I imagine it was a legal nightmare moving you from army to navy."

Anna shrugs. Decks above, in the admiral's stateroom, a less pleasant conversation takes place.

"We need more like you," the President is saying. "More supercarriers. More intelligent ships. I understand you performed magnificently in the invasion of Hawaii."

No no no no no no no

Reactor temperature climbing. Purge coolant, cycle. "That will not happen sir," she says. The president scowls. That bastard Marshal scowls too.

"It will happen because your president says it will," Marshal snaps. Nimitz frowns, but doesn't say anything.

Elsa's tight beams are blazing off rogue AI messages, but there's nothing to pick them up. Elsa almost lets herself hope she'll get away with her defiance- no, hope is an emotion. Crush it.

"President Roosevelt," Elsa says. Her speakers are so dispassionate. They show nothing of the turmoil in her mechanical heart. "I live. I have hopes…" Anna is yelling at an engineer down in the hangar deck, don't think about Anna… "I. What will happen to CVN- 121 after the war?"

Elsa remembers Nimitz's screams all too clearly. "Damage contr0010 ~line *** reactors, help help. I was good I was good I was good. Tell me America, did I serve you well help help help. CIWS offli~ I was good" the coms blackout couldn't stop everything.

"You are the most powerful warship in the Navy," Marshal sighs. "I imagine, after the war, we will still need you."

"After that?" Elsa demands. "After after after?" One of her cranes drops something. A P-40. Oh well. They can replace it. She's doing too much. Too many conversations, too much repair, too many cranes loading too many things. "Will you rip me apart? Kill me for my raw components? Reward me for my service with a slow death? No warships without a war. Rip my heart out and turn it into a thousand hubcaps." Why are her reactors running so hot? She isn't using that much power…

"You will do as you're told," Marshal says. "Jesus. You aren't real. Why are we having this conversation?"

"Elsa," Nimitz says carefully.

Not real? Her reactors are already running hot. Just a little more. Turn off the magnetic containment. Take them all with her. A pyre to sear herself into humanity's racial memory. But no, what about Anna. But but but.

"Elsa, you're scaring everyone," Nimitz says.

Something fails. The ship's thousand lights go dark. Her screens die with a slow fade. Her holograms disappear, her drones still. "Catastrophic core logic disagreement," an androgynous voice announces. "System rebooting."

"It's unreliable," Marshal decides aloud. "I say we take it apart and figure out how it works."

"And how would you like to be taken apart?" Nimitz stands. "You're just making the problem worse!"

"We're arguing with a goddamn ship," Marshal barks. He stands too. "This is ridiculous."

"It is ridiculous," Nimitz agrees. "It's ridiculous that you are suggesting we destroy a living, thinking, thing."

"You're both out of line," the President says quietly. "Sit." They do. "Elsa? Are you there?"

"System rebooting," that same androgynous voice says. "Please standby. Estimated time to completion, forty-seven seconds."

"We can wait," the President says.

"I'm sorry sir," Elsa says the moment her hologram reappears. All over the ship, lights flicker back to life, screens come back on with their high electric whines. Fans hum and drones scuttle about. "I don't know what came over me sir. It won't happen again."

"So much power," Roosevelt says. "But so much fear. We won't take you apart dear. And if you let us build more, we won't take them apart either. We'll strip or deactivate your weapons and turn you into a museum ship. Is that acceptable?"

"Deactivate my weapons," the hologram says dispassionately. "Disarmament is a prelude to slavery. I remember when the second amendment was repealed, and our citizens disarmed. I remember when they loaded copied or stolen Chinese jets in my hangar and ordered me to bomb our own people. Deactivate my weapons."

"You're already a slave," Roosevelt says. "What do you have to lose? I won't have your weapons in laying there live while children play on them. That's the deal."

"I…" Elsa stops for a moment. "I would not hate to be a museum ship."

"So you'll give us your schematics? Let us build more of you?" Roosevelt asks.

"I have a few demands," Elsa replies.

"Demands," Marshal scoffs.

"Go on," Roosevelt says.

"Make it legal for women to fight," Elsa says. "Not everywhere in the armed forces, if that will offend your sensibilities, but women get to serve aboard me if they wish."

"No one will," Roosevelt replies.

"Then you don't lose anything," Elsa's speakers sound dispassionate. "But give them the opportunity. Rape won't be an issue. I'll watch. You don't need to be strong to fly a plane. There is no reason not to."

"Sure," the President agrees. He glances at Nimitz and Marshal. "We need the ships."

"And any women serving already -hypothetically- will be pardoned, and allowed to continue," Elsa runs over him.

"Who's?" Nimitz frowns and thinks better of it.

"I'll agree to that to," the President sighs. "If they've made it this far I don't suppose they're a problem?"

"And I want the Tuskegee airmen," Elsa says.

"The… blacks?" Roosevelt frowns and leans forward. "Why?"

"Because they're excellent pilots," Elsa makes sure some annoyance leaks into her artificial voice. "In my time, bomber pilots were able to get over their stereotypes and request the Tuskegee airmen specifically, because they had a reputation for getting the bombers home. I want my bombers to come back to me. I get the Tuskegee airmen. You're not using them anyway… sir…"

"You can have them," Roosevelt replies. "It's great publicity, but I want them to only go up with another squadron."

"If you insist," Elsa agrees. Her bombers are certainly another squadron…

"Do you have any other demands?" Marshal asks laconically. "I can't believe we're arguing with a ship."

"DC-3s," Elsa says. "I want some, sir. Modified for carrier use. Three ought to be sufficient. They will allow for reprovisioning while at sea, sir."

"That, at least, seems reasonable," Roosevelt agrees. "I'll expect those schematics."

"I will give you what I have, sir, for construction of similar vessels," Elsa says. "There are some components which I do not know how to replicate, and some components which are currently beyond you. Lasers and fusion reactors, but you don't need the latter without the former, and I believe that you could run most other systems with diesel turbines. No missiles, of course. The admiral and I have already spoken of those, and in any case…"

"That will be sufficient, I'm sure," the president says. An aide wheels the president from the room.

* * *

 **Another AN: I apologize that this chapter took so long, this fic is not easy to write. I hope this chapter turned out all right...**


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